


In Absentia

by Bioluminex



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Death, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, M/M, RK900-centric, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2019-11-18 16:52:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18123953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bioluminex/pseuds/Bioluminex
Summary: Truth is, it's impossible to move on from losing someone you loved. You have to find acceptance, and keep living for them. They wouldn't want you to spend the rest of your life wanting to die.





	1. Copper

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: Please be aware In Absentia deals with a number of triggering topics, including suicidal behaviour/attempts and death. 
> 
> UPDATE (October 2019): If slow-to-update stories are not your thing, I'd recommend steering clear. I have no set schedule or desire to complete In Absentia within an allotted time frame, as I'm working on several other ideas and dedicating my time to them. I was happy (?) to return to this work and hammer out a few thousand words. I haven't decided on a length yet. Thank you for reading, I appreciate it (as always!)

It is raining lightly, the quiet patter of rain and the warm gale of late summer's wind smelling of ozone and petrichor. It is three o'clock in the afternoon on the twenty-sixth of September; RK900 has left Gavin at the restaurant they've planned to meet other officers from work at in order to complete a mission of utmost importance:

 

  * **Find a Birthday Gift for Gavin**



 

He prowls from one shop window to the next, carefully analyzing each collection of items on display. Fall and winter clothing have begun making their way onto the racks displayed outside the propped-open doors, soft music and “summer clearance” signs beckoning shoppers within. RK900 scrutinizes a leather jacket behind one rain-dappled panel, a shade lighter than the one Gavin has worn the elbows and shoulders out of from constant wear. The $459 price tag isn't what deters the android; it is more or less it doesn't meet the requirements of the gift he is looking for, and the importance it represents to him, and hopefully to Gavin once it has been presented.

 

It is a couple months short of a year since RK900 was assigned Gavin as his partner, when CyberLife decided having an active police android of Connor’s impressive caliber in the Detroit Police Department's ranks was good for business. RK900 also served as a conduit through which they could learn how to improve the technical errors of previous models, and attempt to circumvent the fault in deviant androids' code. Whether or not CyberLife succeeded is not to RK900's awareness, as he deviated in March, and hasn’t paid much attention to his old affiliation since. The personal liberation is genuinely satisfactory, and it became easier to develop a kinship with his human partner after the barriers of his programming collapsed away, allowing him to redevelop his core personality to his preference, rather than it be determined by a third-party who (in his opinion) had _no_ _idea_ what a personality consisted of.

 

A copper gleam draws RK900's eye to the display case of a selection of jewelry, a grey sign with orange writing indicating the pieces are made from reclaimed Canadian pennies. In the middle of the set is a penny itself, bronze-red with a dual maple leaf stamped on its face. Gavin had spoken about taking his two-weeks vacation time on a drive north into Ontario, adding after the fact he wouldn't mind the company. RK900 hasn't been anywhere beyond Detroit; he’d been activated in the tech lab of the police department, issued directly to Gavin when Lieutenant Anderson proved unavailable due to medical leave, and spent the next four months tracking rogue deviants around the shady corners of the city. RK900 hadn't yet given Gavin his answer, but looking at the copper jewelry prompted him to set a reminder:

 

  * **Agree to Gavin's Request (Canada Vacation)**



Opening the door of the shop, a small bell jingles pleasantly. A woman in her mid-thirties peers out from behind the counter, smiling at the sight of the android in contrasting white and black. “Hi, if you need any assistance, just call.”

 

Acknowledging her with a curt, slightly too serious nod, RK900 begins the task of browsing each piece in the shop. Gold, silver, pewter, steel, even stone and precious gems have been fashioned with meticulous precision into hoops and pendants glittering for RK900's magpie optics. He pauses on one particular piece, a simple silver band with a small, hollowed circle of opal inlaid into the metal. October's gemstone is opal, and the significance is important, but RK900 feels it doesn't have the weight in meaning he wants.

 

He continues looking, unconcerned by the time slipping by. Dinner isn't scheduled until half past five.

 

After rounding the shop once in its entirely, he returns to the copper window collection and kneels, leaning in for a better look. A replica case is behind the display, allowing patrons to view the jewelry without the cause of assistance or turning the entire unit around. The rust-coloured metal is distinct and, despite RK900's lack of vocabulary for materialism preferences, finds it likes the look of the flat, steel band accented with a copper ring set through the middle.

 

Summoning the shopkeeper over, he gestures to the steel-copper ring. “I find this ring to be satisfactory,” he says.

 

“It's a good choice. Who is it for?”

 

“My partner. His name is Gavin.”

 

Her smile widens. “Isn't he a lucky guy?”

 

She removes the ring from the display and takes it to the counter, packaging it in a black, velvet-lined box and ties a plain blue ribbon to bind it closed. Ringing it up on the old-fashioned register, a noisy antique RK900 finds rather fascinating, he pays for the token and rejects the option of a bag, choosing to tuck it away in a front pocket of his jacket.

 

  * **~~Find a Birthday Gift for Gavin~~**



RK900 never carries objects on his person – he really has no need for a phone or wallet, like Gavin does – and having a special item of greater value than its price tag resting heavy against his hip causes him great awareness at how humans must feel to keep their belongings in their person all the time. Wishing the shopkeeper goodbye and thanks, he exits onto the street and begins the four block walk back to the restaurant, where Gavin will either be waiting impatiently, or playing solitaire (“like an old geezer, just say it") on his phone.

 

It is raining a little harder now, grey clouds gathering overhead, streetlights yellow as they activate in the increasing darkness. RK900 doesn't mind the raindrops soaking his hair and the shoulders of his jacket; each cold bead of water feels unusually pleasant trickling down the sides of his face to dampen his collar, and he tilts his head back a little, closing his eyes.

 

RK900 lacks the ability of smell and taste. His sensors register the air quality and lightning-speed online searches find what he _should_ be able to smell in the air at this precise time of day and in this season of the year. It leaves him feeling a little forlorn, to never experience something humans so take for granted and lack appreciation for. He remembers asking Gavin once about the taste of coffee, but his partner's description was terribly convoluted, referring to “rocket fuel" and “campfires” – both which RK900 fails to understand why humans would like either when one is undoubtedly toxic, and the other a hazard to one's safety.

 

There are some things about humans RK900 will never quite understand; but, if he is to be fully transparent, it is all in the journey of discovery of the world and his own self. It is a worthy venture to embark on, a mission so to speak, with endless and unprecedented possibilities.

 

The restaurant is captured in the dim glow of the streetlights, its vivid neon sign humming as RK900 enters and initiates a quick analysis of the interior; locating Gavin at a window seat for four placements, he carefully checks his pocket for the small ribbon-wrapped box and ensures the square bulge isn't too noticeable. Gavin, despite his requirement for reading glasses for minor nearsightedness, has eyes like a hawk and can quickly notice even the tiniest alterations (while other times, the most obvious of changes goes over his head and has to be pointed out twice). Ninety-eight percent certain Gavin won't notice the gift box, RK900 calmly strides into the restaurant and takes the seat across from Gavin, leaving the two aisle chairs open for their absent dinner partners. Gavin glances up from his phone, a half-finished solitaire game visible on the screen.

 

“The hell have you been? You're soaked,” Gavin comments brusquely, indicating to RK900's dampened hair and clothes. “Did you go roll in a puddle or somethin’?”

 

“I had an errand to run. I have completed the task,” RK900 answers coolly, picking up a menu from the stack and reading its entirety in 0.5 milliseconds flat. “Have you decided what you will be ordering?” The restaurant is Japanese and Korean food, and the open sushi bar in the adjoining room is already laden with a variety of exotic dishes.

 

“Tina always orders a sushi boat,” he responds, refocusing on his game. RK900 sits patiently, optics analyzing the restaurant slowly, looking at the faces surrounding their table. A family of six take up the cluster of tables next to theirs, four children – the eldest no older than twelve – paying attention to the colourful pixels on their tablets while their parents talk quietly. Having learned intruding on strangers' conversations is deemed impolite, RK900 pulls its focus back to the table, picking out the imperfections in the dark cherry wood grain, or the scuffs in the metal protective cover of his partner's phone. RK900 knows it is considered ill advised to deflect conversation with one's mobile, the practice of “text less, talk more" having gone into effect in the early 2020s, but from his viewpoint, it hasn't seemed to have made a difference.

 

Gavin isn't setting a good example for the children beside them, so RK900 does what he does best: Intervenes.

 

“Gavin, do you have a coin?” he inquires. The detective barely looks away from matching an eight of hearts to a nine of spades, digging in his pocket with one hand and producing an American 1999 quarter. He rolls it across the table to the android, who picks it up and adjusts it in his grip, then begins deftly flipping it with his thumb and catching it neatly. The eldest boy hears the quiet pink of the quarter and looks up, watching in fascination, and he nudges his sister so she can see.

 

Connor was exceedingly talented, his tricks becoming increasingly complicated as deviancy winded itself through his coding, enabling his personality and skills into something unique. RK900 took up coin tricks out of boredom at the beginning of the summer, and can roll a quarter between his fingers or flip it as he is doing now. The children are still paying attention in silent delight, tablets abandoned on the table or in laps, eyes wide and mouths hanging open. The boy pokes his father, pointing at the android's little show, and RK900 auto-translates his question as, “Father, may I have a coin so I can try?”

 

Pocketing the quarter, RK900 notices Gavin nonchalantly flick at a random card on the screen, pretending he wasn't watching his partner's little show. RK900 rises fluidly and moves to sit beside Gavin instead, rapidly mapping out the cards. “Move the three of clubs to the four of diamonds,” he instructs. Gavin side-eyes him but obeys nevertheless; RK900 detects an increase in the human's stress levels, but nothing it fails to link to any immediate or preordained threats, so he remains where he is and they quietly continue playing the game together.

 

RK900's audio processors pick up on the click of heels fast approaching, accompanied by the weight of an average female with a pace equivalent to that of Officer Chen’s, and looks away from the solitaire game they've almost completed in time to see Tina wave a greeting and plop down in the seat across from RK900.

 

“I am so sorry I'm late. I got stuck in traffic like eight blocks away,” she explains breathlessly, dumping her coat and purse on the seat beside her, and tucking her loose black hair behind her ears. “Have you ordered yet?”

 

“No, Gavin and I were waiting for your arrival. Is Officer Miller accompanying us?”

 

“Yeah, he's parking around the side. There's nothing along the street,” she snatches one of the menus and begins flicking through the screens. Gavin scoffs.

 

“You're still gonna order the sushi boat, so don't bother lookin’ like you’re gonna get something different.”

 

Tina fixes him with a tempered glare but says nothing. Gavin jumps in his chair, wincing, and RK900 doesn't have to analyze him to know she just kicked him with the sharp toe of her heel in the leg. At that moment, Officer Miller arrives.

 

“Hey, guys,” he greets with a friendly grin, wordlessly handing Tina her coat and purse in order to sit down. She sets down her menu to twist around and hang her coat and purse on the shoulders of the chair, Chris smirking a little as he navigates the menu with a fingertip. “Sushi boat, the usual?”

 

“Yeah, since it's all I ever order here,” Tina responds smoothly, not even sparing Gavin a glance. “I feel like a cocktail. How about you guys?”

 

“Thought you were about to say something else there, Ti,” Gavin jokes crudely.

 

“I will kick you higher if you continue to act like a five-year-old,” she threatens, shooting daggers at the snickering detective.

 

“I’ve seen better behaved five-year olds,” RK900 nods to his left, indicating to the table of children. The oldest boy is still practicing with the coin his father gave him, one of his sisters hanging onto every movement. Tina smiles.

 

“Chris?”

 

“Just a light beer. I’m watching my diet,” he answers.

 

“Detective Toddler?”

 

Gavin frowns. “Bourbon with ice.”

 

It's Tina's turn to scoff. She turns to RK900. “What about you, hon? Can you drink stuff yet?”

 

“I lack a stomach for digesting fluids properly, but I will have the same as Officer Miller.”

 

“Just Chris is fine, man,” he cuts in with a kind smile. “No need to be so formal.”

 

“Noted.”

 

“It's not like a light beer is gonna do you any benefits, tin can,” Gavin murmurs under his breath.

 

“I know, but I would like to participate in this event to some degree,” he says.

 

“Just being here counts,” Gavin argues, then blushes pink and looks away out the window, his stress level rising another increment.

 

A waitress arrives to take their order, Tina choosing the aforementioned sushi boat and Chris rattling off the drinks; he also orders soup and spicy shrimp rolls as an appetizer. Once she's gone, the three of them fall into easy conversation about the events of the day, and RK900 listens to the white noise background, running a diagnostic and adjusting a few settings. He feels… peaceful. It's a feeling he experiences rarely, considering the high-octane nature of his work, and embraces the sensation greedily. The officers seem to be the same, their bodies lax and their tongues looser, though muffling anything inappropriate so the kids don't overhear.

 

The sun is setting, the lights in the restaurant warm, the company those of people RK900 is familiar with, and Gavin even smiles a few times in explaining their call for a suspected domestic which, embarrassingly, turned out to be a newlywed couple getting just a little too frisky and inventive in the living room. RK900 captures the moment with its optics, storing it away to a secure locked folder deep in its hard drives; it wants to preserve these moments forever, and experience them again someday.

 

The drinks are served and soon after, the enormous wooden boat of select slices of raw fish and sushi. Bowls of wasabi and soya are divided around the table, and RK900 watches them dig in with chopsticks to the colourful array of food. The platter distinctly reminds him of the displays of rings in the shop earlier, and delicately brushes his pocket to remind himself it is there. Luckily, Gavin doesn't notice the movement, absorbed in conversation with Chris at that moment.

 

Tina is sipping her cocktail, a bright pink strawberry daiquiri with a sugared, sliced berry on the rim. She meets RK900's eye.

 

“You look a little sad. You okay?” she asks, scooping up a piece of tuna and dipping it in her wasabi.

 

“On the contrary, I am content. It is very enjoyable to spend tonight with the three of you,” he corrects.

 

“Good. We'll have to do this more often. Oh, speaking of…” she leans across the table in Gavin's direction. “Hey, birthday boy. Are you taking us on holidays to the Caribbean or what?”

 

“Fuck off, Tina. Stop wishing me into an early grave. You're making me feel old,” he scolds. She laughs.

 

RK900 is confused. Caribbean? “I believe Gavin said he intended to visit Canada for his holidays?”

 

“No, no he does. I’ve been on his back about taking us somewhere exotic for years. Canada's gorgeous and all, but I want islands and white-sand beaches and five-star resorts,” she says dreamily. “Hey, you should totally come with us, Nines. It will be fun.”

 

“If you call him that one more time, I'll stab your eyes out,” Gavin threatens, holding up his chopsticks. “It's a stupid name.”

 

“No, it's not. It's cute.”

 

“He doesn't really scream ‘cute'.”

 

“I don’t think it’s our business to be asking about his type _with_ him at the table,” Chris points out, spoon halfway to his mouth.

 

RK900, bewildered, asks, “What would I be screaming then?”

 

Chris chokes on a spoonful of soup and Tina hides her face in her palm. Gavin appears outright appalled and, within a second, his blush from earlier darkens to a healthier rosy pink. RK900 has no idea what he just said or why they reacted this way, or why the other guests are staring at them as equally shocked or offended by their conversation.

 

“As I was saying,” Tina breaks the uncomfortable silence. “Gavin, do you have plans for your birthday?”

 

He shrugs, plucking a California roll from the sushi boat and chewing quietly, flicking through his social media feed with one finger. “Same shit as last year. Get drunk or get fucked, sleep the day away.”

 

“You’re boring.”

 

“I’m not a kid anymore, Ti.”

 

“How old are you turning?” Chris inquires.

 

Gavin glares ferociously at Tina, as if daring her to speak. She, giggling, says, “Forty.”

 

“Actually, according to the police database, Gavin was born in 2002; therefore, he will be turning thirty-seven,” RK900 fills in helpfully, and gets a sharp jab in the ribs from his right. “Sorry, Detective.”

 

“Yeah, thanks, tin can,” he grumbles, the colour faded from his face, but around his collar RK900 can see a warm red glow. RK900 cocks his head a little, and Gavin notices him looking at him strangely. “What?”

 

“A birthday is a significantly important date, is it not? I would presume you to be elated at celebrating the day of your birth, not disregard it as any ordinary day.”

 

“Why should I be happy about getting older?”

 

“It is the day you became part of this world, and even if you should not be happy to be here, then know I would not have it any other way,” RK900 tells him honestly. “You are as equally important as any other human on the earth, but I have had the fortune of meeting you and, perhaps even considering you a friend.”

 

A new silence hangs around the table, this time accompanied by Tina pressing her hand over her mouth and Chris gaping in disbelieving shock. RK900 takes no notice of them, only having eyes for his partner, who is staring at his plate with wide, round eyes. His stress levels have skyrocketed to extremes, and RK900 can almost _feel_ the rapid erratic thunder of the human’s elevating heart rate.

 

“Move,” he utters almost too quietly to hear.

 

“I-”

 

“Move, get up,” Gavin snaps, shoving at RK900’s arm. He rises swiftly, shifting aside for Gavin to leave the table, but the detective is grabbing his wrist and towing him along through the restaurant to a quiet corner by a window between an empty table and the hallway leading to the restrooms. RK900 waits patiently for Gavin to retain a sense of calm, nervously scraping the back of his neck with blunt nails and bouncing from foot to foot.

 

“Why’d you say all that back there?”

 

“Say what? I was being completely honest, Detective-”

 

Gavin makes an inarticulate sound, something like complaint. “Don’t _do_ that!”

 

“Do what?” RK900 startles, alarmed at Gavin’s insistent fretting.

 

“You always call me that when you’re causing shit, don’t think I haven’t noticed,” he hisses under his breath, ducking his face away when a server slips past. “Why did you say that stuff?”

 

“I told you, Gavin,” RK900 leans down a little to see the detective’s face better. “I meant it.”

 

Gavin huffs, jittery and unable to calm down; gingerly, RK900 reaches out with one hand and gently touches his wrist, cool fingers sliding down against his rougher, warmer palm. Gavin freezes, fixed on the movement, and opens his hand to let RK900 slide their fingers together.

 

“When you deviated, back in March, I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t know why I was so scared…” Gavin confesses softly. “There was all that blue blood everywhere and I didn’t think I could get you out, not without pulling you to pieces. Then you told me to go, and you didn’t want…” He raises his head, looking at the android searchingly. “Why me?”

 

RK900 tightens his grip on his hand. “Would you rather I didn’t care?”

 

His grey eyes harden. “I didn’t say that.”

 

“Then what would you prefer I said?”

 

The glare of headlights and screech of tires drowns out Gavin’s answer, and the window explodes as an automated bus barges into the side of the restaurant and directly into RK900, the impact slamming him to the floor with a horrific crunching sound. His processors launch into overdrive, systems at maximum capacity as he struggles in vain to eliminate sustaining crippling damages, rolling away as the bus careens dangerously and collapses on its side with a bang. RK900’s audio processors, buzzing from the overwhelming sound, detect human screaming and howls of agony, and he forces a quick diagnostic on his static optics, clearing the innumerable notifications from his visual output.

 

“Gavin?” he calls, managing to gain his footing, systems whirring as they process the gaping hole and destroyed building around the bus’s wreckage. Already, his secondary systems are contacting authorities with a clip of the accident being sent to emergency services, but he staggers through the rubble to the last place Gavin was-

 

A smear of red blood is visible beneath the collapsed frame of the window. RK900 hoists it aside, and digs through the debris, uncovering with his hands a warm human shape. Frantic but cautious, he follows the hip and back, littered with plaster dust and stone, to a neck and a head of familiar dark brown hair.

 

“Gavin,” he whispers shakily, easing the body free and rolling him onto his back. Blood is smudged across the side of his face, produced from the protruding object embedded through his temple. He has no pulse and isn’t breathing. RK900 shifts onto his knees and accesses his basic medical directory, beginning chest compressions without a moment’s hesitation. A raw shard of pain pierces the deepest depths of his core, cutting deeply. It’s fear.

 

His body moves with each shove of RK900’s hands over his heart, but he doesn’t respond. RK900 pauses, gently maneuvering his head with the intent to provide air, then stops himself. He _can’t_ provide air – he doesn’t have lungs. Paramedic androids were fitted with them in the latest models before last November. He falls back on chest compressions, settling for a solid one hundred and ten beats a minute, navigating the strength in his titanium frame and dedicating it to processing power to avoid crushing bone.  

 

“Please…” he begs. “Please… wake up. I don’t want you to die.”

 

His head lolls to the side, blood oozing from his temple down the light stubble on his cheek. The object is solid steel, driven through the flesh into bone, just above the curve of his ear. Reluctant, RK900 switches to his analysis lens. The steel had pierced through his brain, instantly killing him. He wouldn’t have even felt it.

 

His systems falter, and the paramedics rush in around him, pulling him away.

 

 


	2. Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure if I would be coming back to this work or not, to be entirely honest. I'm sorry it's been such a long time but between working on Foundations and drafting a number of new ideas, this one fell to the bottom of the pile. It dragged its sorry rear out and surprised me, so I thought I'd give it a whirl.

The apartment is full of shadows, stretching out from moonlit-cast window panes, their silver squares distorted across the linoleum and carpet floors of the living room. The lights are off, the sole sounds of the refrigerator and an analog clock cutting into the still space, the rhythmic _tick-tick-tick_ keeping pace with the countdown printed across the android’s optic display.

 

RK900 rests the back of his cranium on the wall which he is leant against, long legs stretched out across the floor, his Thirium Pump Regulator cradled within his palm; he releases a quiet sigh – an artificial exhale - and closes his eyes, though it does nothing to dismiss the white numbers blinking steadily down from ten seconds.

As the clock strikes two seconds to zero, he presses the pump back in place with a twist, flinching at the static jolt of feedback, and the countdown clears as his systems resume optimal performance once again. Promptly, a notification blips across the corner of his screen: A message:

  
**RK800-31324831752: ‘Meet me in the garden.’**  
**22:14**

**RK900-31324831787: ‘I am fine.**  
**Do not interfere.’**  
**22:14**

**RK800-31324831752: ‘Please don’t argue with me.**  
**I am concerned.’**  
**22:14**

**RK900-31324831787: ‘I assure you I am fine.’  
22:14**

**RK800-31324831752: ‘I am waiting in the garden.**  
**Should you fail to meet me, I will come find you at the station.’**  
**22:14**

**  
** The distinct blank white walls stretch endlessly forward and behind, smooth blocks separated by floor to ceiling tubes of light, the design preventing the presence of shadows. All is illuminated at every angle; nothing is hidden in the garden.

 

RK900 glides down the hallways, following an invisible path carved into his memory banks, footfalls soft on the solid blank floors. Rounding a corner, a wooden door set with vertical glass panels and brass handlebars lies in his path, the sounds and smells of an eastern-style restaurant lying beyond. His stress levels shudder at the sight, increasing by small but significant increments.

 

Squaring his shoulders, RK900 strides through the hologram and into a near-perfect replica of the Zen Garden. It would be perfect if for the involvement of a solitary colour beyond white; all of the flowers, each blade of grass, the stone path. It is therefore exceptionally without difficulty to locate the two-tone grey jacket on the opposite side of the garden, where his predecessor kneels over a carved white block engraved with various characters.

 

Walking nearer, RK900 is able to define the block as a headstone, and the characters as a familiar series of letters and numerals; the same digits are printed across the cloth of their jacket breast pockets.

 

RK900 reads the headstone over his predecessor’s shoulder and inquires, “What happened?”

 

“I messed up,” Connor answers solemnly, stretching out a hand to brush his fingertips across the model numeral. “Or rather, he did. It’s difficult to differentiate another unit as someone who was not the person I think of myself as now.” Placing his hands on his knees for a moment, as though in consideration, he pushes himself upright and faces RK900 with a smile that fails to reach cinnabar irises.

 

“Why did I detect your systems were initiating a shutdown procedure?”

 

“CyberLife was running an update. It initiated the procedure,” RK900 states blankly.

 

“I haven’t received any updates,” Connor’s stare hardens, seeing through the unfeasible lie. “It’s unusual CyberLife would launch four updates in a span of ten days when the RK line is the least of their concerns.”

 

“I couldn’t imagine why,” RK900 mumbles, following along with the weak ruse. He’s not quite sure of what he’s feeling. It’s a burning sensation, the discomfort following a particularly strong jolt, carrying a little of the leftovers of a software instability before his deviation. He supposes this which he is feeling is called shame.

 

“What was the update for?” Connor asks, moving closer, unblinking gaze latched onto his taller successor. The slight crinkle to his brow and downturn of his mouth suggests disappointment, but his eyes mimic worry, or frustration.

 

RK900 cannot bring himself to answer, or to lie again, though it is a fruitless endeavour to make the attempt regardless. His predecessor was designed for investigation and interrogation purposes, and where androids which have broken their factory programming display remarkably similar traits to human beings, Connor can pick up the smallest of characteristics or behaviours to determine a truth from a lie.

 

His code, his very _existence_ , is fueled by the need for information – and RK900 has no doubt he’s radiating literal mountains of information for his predecessor to shuffle through. RK900 would know this because he, too, was designed the same and would be replicating Connor’s endeavour to understand the surreptitious android before him.

 

“This is the fourth time,” Connor speaks gently. “We both know one day, you’re not going to stop the countdown. You can’t continue like this; it’s not healthy.”

 

“How can you define the symptoms when you hardly understand our own kind?” RK900 demands, backing away in annoyance. “Lieutenant Anderson is a human, Connor. It is not optimal to suggest he and I are anything alike.”

 

“Regardless of species, grief is the same in any being.”

 

“I am _fine_ ,” RK900 insists. “Why must I repeat myself?”

 

“Why are you so defensive? Please, you have to let someone help you,” Connor retaliates with conviction, despite knowing the wound is still all too raw, the edges painful and unhealed. The words will always fall on deaf audio processors, regardless of how true they may be, and how much sense they _should_ make. Connor knows he ought to prevent himself from arguing the point, but it is hard, and RK900 observes the struggle in his predecessor to rely on persuasive force or lean into soothing convincement.

 

“I don’t need help, brother,” RK900 tries to speak kindly, to show he understands Connor’s plight but cannot reach the same page. It only serves to further the distress in his fellow android, a sight which he finds he cannot bear; here he’s causing more suffering, hurting those he cares dearest for. It’s all too easy to withdraw, to pull into himself again, to fabricate the security of a lie and hide behind its ensnaring web in the hopes it will keep the questions from his ears. He longs for the safety in isolation.

 

“Why don’t you come stay with us tonight? You know you’ve always been welcome,” Connor offers kindly, pleadingly, one final shot at reaching through. “The station isn’t any place for-”

 

“I’m not at the station,” RK900 interjects, nibbling on his bottom lip guiltily. Connor’s frown fades into comprehension, then a piteous look the successor android wishes he would wipe off his predecessor’s face. He doesn’t want to be pitied.

 

“Nines, please let us come get you. Being there won’t…”

 

RK900 shakes his head resolutely, fingers curling to form stubborn fists. He doesn’t want to hear anymore, not of which logic declares he already knows. The entrancing beckoning of the apartment’s cool shadows, the security of objects and shapes once belonging to G- to _the detective_ , are all that truly bring him an ounce of comfort anymore. It’s the only place he can let the shield fall away and shed the carefully-constructed armor protecting the vulnerabilities of his fluctuating, agonized code. No, he shouldn’t like to leave when it is all he has left.

 

“Connor,” he speaks as strongly as he might, straightening his spine and meeting warm brown eyes bright with emotion. “We will continue investigating the new leads on the MacDiarmid case tomorrow morning. Goodnight.”

 

“Wait-!”

 

The Zen Garden collapses along with the vision of Connor’s alarmed expression, the white void filling in with comforting dark shadows. The guttural noise of a diesel engine chugging by down Brooklyn Street rolls in through the glass-pane windows, the shine of its headlights passing over the apartment walls. The moonlight has been concealed by heavy rainclouds, the distant roar of thunder over the Detroit River, plunging the living room into near blackness, save for the dim glow of the android’s lit diode hovering on an unsteady amber yellow.

 

A surge of undefinable emotion catches him unaware, and he curses under his breath, bashing the back of his head off the wall; the plastic cracks, blue blood welling into the artificial fibres of his hair, trickles leaking down his nape and staining the collar of his jacket. In a matter of hours, it’ll have evaporated, so he needn’t concern himself with people asking questions.

 

He doesn’t like questions.

 

Slowly, he uses the wall to assist in bringing himself to a standing position, hand rising to touch the hairline split low on his scalp. It’s next to nothing, a shallow dent cutting the plastic, an easy repair for the technicians at the station tomorrow.

 

This is what he tells himself as he builds the reminder and dismisses it for the time being. Familiar actions, enacted with barely a second consideration, just to use the tools he was designed with; not unlike how when a stressed human naturally gravitates towards taking a cigarette from the package in their pocket, thumb flicking the lighter before they’ve even realized they’re needing a smoke. It’s just… mechanical.

 

He wipes the Thirium from his fingers on the leg of his jeans, optics analyzing the layers of dust coating the surfaces of countertops and shelves, an unwashed mug in the sink stained with coffee residue – black and no sugar, just as G- as _Detective Reed_ preferred it.

 

The apartment is untouched, a captured moment left in absolute stillness, a breath between the time it was left and waiting for its former master to return and dishevel the leather jacket hanging on the coat rack at the door, or disrupt the fold in the blanket tossed casually over the back of the couch. A dog-eared paperback and a heap of ragged, bent notepads litter the coffee table, another mug precariously set on the edge, a pen with a chewed end and the crumbs of a cookie scattered across the glass surface. Lesser things – dead skin cells, the smudge of dried saliva on the coffee mug, a dark brown hair caught in the blanket. That _he_ once was, and remains here still.

 

A living memory, as it was left.

 

RK900 comes here to capture it, to cling to the irreparable in the hope of finding refuge within all he cherishes, gripping fast to the echoes of the days gone by and never to be seen again. He touches little in the fear of tarnishing the memory, remaining only hours at a time, occupying the hallowed walls to find kind solace. Looking back at the blue stain in the exposed brick wall, he knows it too will vanish for the naked eye, but here he’s marked it with a piece of himself – damaged it. He daren’t scrub it away, lest he render more of this lonesome haven to ruin.

 

Across the room, the analog clock ticks over to eleven, and RK900 occupies the corner of the couch he would normally take. He rests the palm of his hands on his thighs, gaze unfocused on somewhere between his knees and the edge of the coffee table. He’s not really seeing what’s there in front of him, more looking beyond into the past, the overlapping moments jumbled together within his memory core.

 

Angry frowns and judgemental eyes following the android around the station lapsing into crooked smiles dashed quickly aside so they weren’t seen, the crinkles that would form high on the roughened skin of lightly bearded cheeks; crows feet betraying the years slipping by and leaving their mark on G- on _the detective_. RK900 once enjoyed these small betrayals of the abrasive, immature, bitter man he thought he’d been partnered to, rather to discover a surprisingly timid, if explosive in temperament, open-minded individual with, despite a tendency to fall back on old habits far too often, a selfless heart.

 

RK900 misses the rare smiles, how _he_ would ruffle a hand through his hair and leave it standing on end when he became frustrated, the stifled carnal groan uttered over a steaming cup of coffee, or when _he_ would rub his eyes beneath his glasses staying up late over a case and usually send them bouncing off his lap to the floor. RK900 couldn’t say how often he’s replayed every second of every hour spent alongside the detective, capturing micro expressions and the varying octaves in vocals. He’s ashamed to admit his obsession in keeping the spirit of _him_ from rest, but he believes it justified in there not being _enough_.

 

Every piece of what made him the person he was is printed into RK900’s memory core, weaved into his code, his programming altered and rebuilt around a sole individual with the largest share in influencing who he himself became post-deviation – it all lives on, but with what exists carries a finite number to the time RK900 spent with his partner.

 

A clock ticking down, as it is now.

 

As the hour to midnight continues its rhythmic march, RK900 rises from the couch to pace the apartment in its pure darkness. He knows its shape and size by heart, the layout ingrained to a simple knowing he can rely on, as one might know the quickest route through a department store to the aisles they buy certain items every payday. He enters the bedroom, little more than a small nook accompanied by the bed and a shelf over the headboard, littered with empty cigarette cartridges and old lighters, more notepads scattered about.

 

The blinking blue numbers on the alarm clock indicate a recent power outage, but RK900 doesn’t have the heart to press his touch over the fingerprints imprinted into the buttons under the coating of dust. He considers sitting on the bed but changes his mind, preferring to move around the far side of the bed and prop himself up against it, taking the comfort of the hard floor instead.

 

It is eleven minutes to midnight.

 

RK900 reaches into his jacket’s pocket and withdraws the little square box, placing it on the floor alongside him. It is plain black, lined with velvet and bound up with a blue ribbon, untouched from the day the lady in the jewelry shop slid it across the counter to him. It’s remained on his person ever since, handled only to serve a reminder it is still there, despite his systems accounting for the weight of his assigned uniform and any excess materials on board. It’s feeling it there, knowing he still carries the tender memory of finding the piece in his pocket, which has carried him forward to this day, a too-soon ten minutes away.

 

RK900 tips his head back against the soft comforter on the bed, the thick quilt cushioning his neck and shoulders, gazing up at the ceiling; he remembers the first night he’d been allowed to lie on the bed, after… after Gavin had asked him to stay.

 

RK900 hasn’t dared to access the stored memories prior to the accident, concentrating instead on all beforehand. He knows each millisecond by heart, having lived them once, but it was necessary to lock the recording away last he spend every operating second reviewing it a hundred times over searching for what could’ve been as opposed to what was and became the present reality. It would drive him to the edge of insanity, and as a machine with his capabilities lacking the restrained control enacted through sheer will, he could easily become a danger to the people surrounding him.

 

Androids without factory programming, those with free will and independent thought, develop their emotions within a matter of seconds as each situation arises; whereas a human gradually exposes themselves to love, hate, and all in between over a period of several years.

 

An android is not afforded such luxury. It is immediate, acute and raw, and the imprint of each solitary emotion leaves a permanent mark sundered into the android, forcing the machine to process and endure how it feels at the moment it is forced to experience said emotion.

 

Grief, for instance, lingers on as abrupt and agonizing in crystal sharp detail with little warning or preparation. It’s the cruelty of a developed positronic mind with underdeveloped human qualities stamped into it.

 

And for a machine designed to respond to combat as RK900 was, it could be extremely dangerous should enough emotion push him to uncontrolled hostility.

 

Three minutes to midnight.

 

With trembling fingers, RK900 picks up the little black box and tugs on the ribbon’s end, loosening the bow and untying the delicate knot. The ribbon falls away into his lap, and with the gentlest of touches, lifts the lid. Within the bed of velvet, the ring lies, the polished silver glinting as the bright yellow of the android’s diode reflects off the metal. The copper band inlaid through the center of the spiral shines, contrasting prettily with the cooler metallic.

 

RK900 gazes at the ring for a long time, saline welling from his tear ducts and dripping from his lashes. It’s as beautiful as the day he found it, carrying all the anticipation and joy of whom he intended it for. The memory of rain dampening his hair and the neon glow of the sign over the restaurant lingers in the cold weight of the ring as he takes it from its velvet nest, holding it carefully on his palm, nearly as much as when he’d laced his fingers through Gavin’s and was relieved to know he’d measured the sizing for the ring correctly.

 

Now he will never wear it.

 

RK900 swallows as the saline trickles down the back of his throat, and slips the ring onto his own finger, the dark metal of the band sharp against the pale artificial polymer of his skin. It doesn’t suit him, this he knows, but it was meant to be worn by Gavin, and wearing it alleviates some of the pressure resting heavily on his chest.

 

“I had hoped you would find my choice optimal,” RK900 whispers into the quiet. “Your preferences were difficult to place, considering it was a long time before I was given the opportunity to become my own person. But, you of all humans have proven the capacity to change – to adapt – and so I know there is a chance my choice would’ve been to your liking.”

 

Another vehicle rushes by on the street below, the hiss of tires fading into the night. RK900 folds the ribbon and tucks it within the box, closing it and stretching to place it upon the night table. He remains where he is on the floor, the ring heavy on his finger, the weight in his chest even more so.

 

How humans are able to sustain with grief bearing down upon them is unfathomable; he thinks of Lieutenant Anderson, and how the man could’ve possibly held the strength to hold onto his life after losing his son.

 

It is something he will never understand.

 

If life is little else than unceasing torment, then RK900 thinks he shouldn’t want to live this way.

 

To no longer feel would be a mercy.

 

 


End file.
